


Shack 76

by Speranza



Category: Hannibal - Thomas Harris
Genre: Canadian Shack, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-29
Updated: 2001-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For first course..."  She led him into the kitchen, where the French skiers were still twitching a little, but had largely settled down. "Frogs' legs."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shack 76

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the original Canadian Shack challenge (2001).

He stood at the balcony and looked over the mountain range, a trim, sleek man with his hands clasped behind his back. Clarice paused, then raised her own well-manicured hand to the door frame and cocked her hips, posing.

"Champagne?" she asked.

Hannibal turned, and she saw his eyes appreciatively sweep up her black capri pants to her cream-colored Merino wool sweater, which gently hugged the curve of her breasts. "Here? In this shack? No, no..." He walked toward her, both palms extended, and she took his cold hands in hers and squeezed. "It's entirely the wrong milieu for champagne, Clarice. Much too rustic. Perhaps a hot toddy instead."

"I didn't think there was a wrong time or place for champagne," Clarice said with a smile. "And this is hardly a shack."

"Then I still have more to teach you, Clarice." He bent his head, and kissed the tips of her fingers. She felt his tongue give a rough, catlike lick.

"Maybe. But don't be too certain, Doctor." She pulled her fingers away and turned, moving back through the glass doors and into the chalet proper. "I suggested champagne for a reason..."

"Ah, I see." She could feel him right behind her and nearly moaned aloud; it was still a delicious sensation, turning her back on him. "Forgive me, darling," he murmured. "I failed to take the menu into account. What will be we having tonight?"

"For first course..." She led him into the kitchen, where the French skiers were still twitching a little, but had largely settled down. "Frogs' legs. To be followed by a light lemon soup." Hannibal mmmed approvingly. "For main course," she continued, "a roast, I think." She opened the pantry door and thoughtfully regarded the Mountie hanging there. "I was hoping you'd do the honors."

"Hm," Hannibal said, cocking his head and tapping his lips with his finger. "This will be something of a challenge, I think. English cuisine is so very dull."

"Well, I've still got my daddy's recipe for pot roast," Clarice told him. "It's a bit simple, but—let's just say it's comfort food."

She saw his maroon eyes glitter; oh, he liked that idea, very much. "Oh, yes, a pot roast," he said. "How very charming. With potatoes and yams and two vegetables—and I'll make _ambrosia_. Will that please you?"

"Yes," Clarice murmured. "Very much." Hannibal moved toward her and gently rested his hands on her hips. He looked like he was just barely keeping his distance, like he wanted to _devour_ her. "Say please," she murmured.

"Please..." His voice was the barest whisper.

Clarice turned her head and felt his lips brush her cheek. And then a hand clutched her ankle. She looked down curiously: one of the skiers—the one who'd groped her, in fact—had managed to crawl his way over to them. Hannibal went very still, then leaned forward and murmured into her hair, "Shall I?"

"Yes, please," Clarice said and handed him the ax.


End file.
